Are you faster than a second-grader?

Somewhere in the Grandparents’ Handbook, there is a chapter on encouragement.

I will read it if I ever get my hands on the thing.

For the past 17 years of my career as a grandfather, I probably could have done a better job in this department.

It’s not that I am a mean person, but I do get a tad too competitive at times. Maybe it’s because I want the boys to be winners themselves, and they can tell when I’m holding back.

Maybe I just need to grow up.

Recently, I took a few steps in that direction.

After spending the night at our house, getting up before sunrise and fortifying himself with breakfast, my youngest grandson was excited about the Monster Dash his mom had helped to organize through the Junior League of Pueblo. It was out on the St. Charles Mesa at DiSanti Farms.

The plan — if you are around 8-year-olds, you understand how fluid a plan can be — was for Evan to run in the kiddies’ 50-yard dash. With an onrush of energy that morning, he convinced me to join him in the 5K run as well.

“I’m going to win!” he said, adding a couple of exclamation points with jabs to my shoulder.

So, with hardly a thought, I signed us up to run the race. There was also a 5K walk, which sounded better to me, but Evan was determined to run.

I made sure we got a place near the front of the mass start, so we could have a shot at being in the lead. When the starter’s pistol rang out we got a good jump. Evan took off at full tilt.

I loped behind, determined to keep up. It was a crisp morning and kind of fun to watch all the people in costumes passing me.

“Come on, Grandpa!” Evan shouted, waving his arms.

I ran a little faster to catch him. The mornings on the bicycle and basketball courts pay off.

“Slow down, Grandpa! I have to catch my breath,” he said. We were about 200 yards into the race.

A boy dressed as a piece of bacon and his mom whizzed past.

“Bacon! I love bacon! Let’s beat the bacon!”

The beat-the-bacon strategy kept us going for half a mile.

I was looking at some litter on the side of the road and wishing I’d brought a trash bag. But I had my hands full stuffing various articles of clothing — we’d dressed for a chill, but then the sun came out — into a couple of canvas bags the race organizers thoughtfully provided.

With the bacon long gone, Evan found a new running mate for a while. Somewhere between Mile 1 and Mile 2, we hit the fabled wall.

“I can’t . . . go . . . on!” he said dramatically.

“Sure you can,” I calmly replied. “We’re already halfway. If we turn back, it will be the same as if we . . . ”

Evan wasn’t there, but had plopped down a few yards back. I bent down to tie my shoe. Suddenly, he was trying to climb on my back.

“Evan, you’re a big boy now,” I coached, realizing that in my youth a 70-pound load on my back was nothing, but it might be game-changer now. “You can do this.”

And he did. He perked up when a black cat (kitten, actually), crossed our path.

“That’s bad luck,” he told me. Then he bonked my head. “See?”

A horse was prancing around a corral.

“I want to ride it!”

A man was chasing chickens around a yard.

“I want to eat them!”

We made a dash to the water checkpoint, but ran out of gas just before the helpers offered us cups with outstretched arms. It was like being in a slow-motion marathon. A pair of troll dolls with their long hair done up in colorful cones danced by us.

“Let’s go! I’m not going to get beaten by a girl,” Evan shouted.

“Um, we’re getting beaten by lots of girls,” I said. “We’ve just got to do the best we can. Look back there, we’re not in last place.”

Eventually, we were headed down the home stretch. A family with three younger children passed us.

“C’mon, Grandpa, you can do it,” one of the kids told me. I bristled, but then remembered I was wearing a sweatshirt that said “Grandpa” on the front.

Evan wasn’t so philosophical, and kicked it into another gear.

“I’m 8 years old! I’m 8 years old!” he yelped confidently as he surged ahead of them. This happened maybe four or five times.

But he broke into one final, joyous sprint as he crossed the line to the applause of a cheering crowd.

As I jogged to the finish a few seconds behind, I was struck by how happy my grandson was. Even though we didn’t win it all, as Evan had planned, I felt we both gained something that morning.